When you were in my berth. Caught, and that too is pleasing, to be so aware of each other, and find no objection.
"You're at liberty to peruse the library as any sailor," he notes. "Though I can't speak to the tastes of the donors."
Crozier is not a big contemporary fiction reader, surprise. Adventures read a bit odd to him, living as he does, and fantasies and romances lean into class issues too much to win any goodwill. And so, science journals and Greek classics, for him. Some people might accuse him of being snobbish, and that's fine.
"Science is all about making order of things. Understanding the madness of the living world. I suppose that's what made me curious— that any bit of that could be possible at all. And still we only know raindrops. I am empty, next to the men we've brought along to do studies of the plans and animals. Just a man making notes. And yet it's interesting."
Or else he wouldn't be here. And he thinks, maybe, Jopson might find this perspective interesting, too.
Edited (minor wording change to sound more sailory ) 2025-10-31 04:21 (UTC)
"I don't often find myself with a surplus of time to read, but I do on occasion before I sleep. This will be a welcome change."
A small gesture to the book, where he runs a hand over the cover again, smooth and carefully crafted. Jopson wondered about the world when he was younger, when he was starry-eyed and youthful and not yet hindered by the sharp edges of the world. He might have enjoyed this then as much as he enjoyed learning his father's craft. A sponge, waiting to soak up any knowledge someone might offer him.
"And I am empty next to you, sir," he smiles a little, turning to look at him a little better, knocking his knee into the older man's. "Will this book aid in making sense of the madness we face? I think about it sometimes - that we all woke up and chose to sail face first into the blistering cold. For great discovery, of course, to put a man's name on a piece of land, but it's right mad when you think about it."
There's noise up on the deck - men hooting and hollering, a bell ringing somewhere, signaling the men to break. He rather enjoys the sounds of a merry, busy ship.
"So we follow an empty, mad Captain into the sea over and over again. It makes for a very grand story. One I would very much like to read when I am between tasks - well, assuming you stop putting holes in every piece of cloth you own - it's right impressive."
Knee bump for knee bump. Empty-headed, and so good company.
Crozier laughs a little, just a barely-there chuckle. Jopson's right, it is mad. Has always been, and he had known it to be so when he first set foot on Hamadryad, a lifetime ago. It had thrilled him as a boy. It still thrills him, even though he's also found great solace in the brutal order of navy life. Sailing is madness, and a sailor must be a stone in the face of it.
And ordered madness goes on, above them. Around them. Perhaps in here, too, fraternizing far too familiarly. Keenly aware of each other.
"Madness follows its like," he teases. "You're darning socks while floating."
Jopson is literate, skilled, diligent. He doesn't have to work on a ship. They're all loons, out here.
"We learn about humanity while we learn about our world. Technicians, we are, while some men see it as the search for God, and others see it as the search to disprove God. No business of mine, all that. And yours— I'm sure I've got at least some trousers that are unholed."
"You certainly don't want me pulling ropes," he murmurs, laughing at little. He enjoys the work, even if some men frown upon his position here. Laundry, sewing, cleaning, dressing, so on, so forth. "And I think darning socks is more useful in this weather. I refuse to be responsible for the loss of your big toe, sir. Only because I don't think I'd hear the end of it."
Pleasant, all of this. It makes it easier to ignore the pain in his back, the way twisting to look at the man hurts in a new way today as the welts begin to ease and heal. Perhaps if he had a job elsewhere, he'd not have scars or welts but would instead be cold and miserable somewhere else. He'll take the lashes. For this? The ship, his captain? He'd do it again, no questions asked.
"And the only trousers that have survived the times and trials of Captain Francis Crozier would be the ones you're wearing now, sir." A reach, cheeky thing, at the fabric over his thigh where he pinches it, pulls it a little. "I've put patches in all the others so it will be a little more difficult for you to ruin them so quickly."
He smiles, hand drifts away, and he rises, moving to tidy up the table, setting the book in perfect alignment with the corner so he can free his hands up, place a few things back in their places.
"I think next we're landed I will spend my own shillings and pounds to restock your wardrobe for our next leg." Things he may or may not have done before. Who's to say.
Crozier's hand touches his as it withdraws, an incidental, maybe-accidental tease. Oh, hm, dashing away, out of reach. He considers following him, but for now, he stays where he is and watches as Jopson tidies up. So still, when he waits to be called for, but always ready to be in motion. Swift and graceful.
"I'm a sailor."
As if this is enough to explain the state of his clothes— and it is. He may not have the laborious shifts of an able seaman or caulker, but he works. He takes to the rigging when he needs to, he goes to shore on the ice, he hunts, he digs up curious rocks, he walks the deck, every day, every night. But, he demures,
"I have not previously had such attention to my wardrobe. You started with a backlog. And I can only thank you for your care."
Perfectly content to wear his uniform if it's clean and not mind anything past that. He's paid fairly, even generously, and he could wrap himself in luxury if he chose. But he finds no joy in it, and finds better uses for his pay. More practical things, and the excess sent back home. No use for fine shirts, or multiple coats. He gets on. But lately he's been getting on a bit better, because he's had someone who looks after him.
Now, he does stand, and goes to closer observe Jopson's work.
"If you do, I will expense it. It would shame me otherwise."
“Goodness, sir, I hadn’t the slightest that you’re a sailor. What a remarkable accomplishment.”
Cheeky little shit he is. Jopson smirks, knowing and a little playful as he carefully organizes the papers on the desk, then the books, then the writing utensils. Everything has its proper place, one he carefully replaces them to even with Crozier up and drawing closer.
With him, Jopson has never thought twice about nearness, accepting the easy presence of Crozier floating lazily in the sea of his periphery. Some of the books go back to their shelves, others with active notes go to Crozier’s desk, where he leans over the edge to place the documents. It helps that it turns his body into long lines and all strong limbs.
“Let me finish tidying and I’ll ring for some tea for you. Perhaps something a little sweeter today to indulge in the stars.”
He wins himself a very light pinch to his elbow. A bolder man might have tried for his rear (and he is often plenty bold), but they're still being friendly. Jopson has yet to award him with his decision, and Crozier means to keep to his word. The younger man has the say in it.
His steward really is very attractive. He could have his pick of men inclined to it, on the ship, and even among those who usually aren't. Crozier's ego is warmed to know he's in the ranking, even though he knows full well how to pull other men. Easier than women, though he's cautious about who he'll gamble the ruin of his reputation on. Men above his station are safe, mutually assured destruction; molly boys eager to be taken sternly in hand, the other end of that spectrum, safely anonymous.
Jopson is something else.
He likes him.
"As you say."
A lilt of teasing in his voice. Crozier has come to learn there's little arguing with him, but honestly, he likes this. Tea and stars. If Jopson doesn't think to get himself a cup, too, he can share in his commander's.
"Finally you show some sense," he muses, rubbing at the pinched elbow with an easy sort of smile. "I do know what's best for you. Well, so long as it's your tea and nothing else."
He fusses about the room a little more, righting chairs at the great table, wiping the table down with a cloth, even turning everything on the captain's desk to neat, straight piles. Only when he seems satisfied with the state of the room and his sewing is folded and tidied to the end of the bench he sighs. His turn for an elbow, but he squeezes it instead, fingers lingering there until his walk past him draws him away altogether and out the door.
He makes polite conversation as he travels down to fetch a hot kettle. Returns with all the trappings for Crozier's tea. He makes the usual cup, meticulous and with nearly scientific precision, but at the very end he stirs in a dollop of honey. A treat for a colder day, but a good bolster for being out just past dark to keep his good health.
It's incredibly satisfying, caring for someone else. No less someone that occupies his mind majority of the day as it is.
"Here you are, sir," he slides the saucer across to him. "In good preparation for this evening."
He doesn't linger overlong, instead shrugs out of his jacket, hanging it on a coat hook. he rolls his sleeves up, but it's obvious in the way he moves that his back still stings, a little stiff as he begins to dust the shelves and the mantle. It's performative more than anything, his cleaning - the place is remarkably tidy from days of attention. Instead, it's more that the captain has something to look at and agonize over while he has his sweetened tea.
His choice, the man said. He made his choice what feels like eons ago, but he'd been punished with distance before the lashings. Now he means to gently punish his captain with nearness.
Crozier doesn't have much of a sweet tooth, but a little is just right, and it's bracing for the cold. A nod of thanks and he accepts the cup, holding it a bit just to enjoy the warmth as it comes to consumable temperature. Whilst doing so, he leans a bit against the heavy desk table, still solidly in place. The sea has been cooperative this week, with no need to hook in the ropes.
Jopson cuts an attractive figure, and since he's only pretending to clean, he must not mind an audience. Crozier observes him, accepting the performance and appreciating it— not that the act of cleaning holds any sway. But his stewards his handsome, and well proportioned, and deserving of an admiring stare while they have enough privacy for him to get away with fixing him with one.
To work to be worth it is hardly an agony.
"Come and taste if this is to your liking," he says, and it's more of a coax than an order. Holding the teacup out. He's taken a drink already. "You squirrel away your own preferences too often, while you note mine as sharp as any of the scientists we're to weigh down."
And then he may go back to showing off how nice he looks in his vest.
It isn't all performative - he takes time to arrange the books on the shelves by order of surname, but it's an unnecessary and fruitless task. Someone will come to borrow a work and throw it all out of order once again. But it's a nice, mindless thing, pleasantly existing under the captain's scrutiny, listening to the sounds of him shift his weight, sip the tea, breathe.
Looking over his shoulder, he raises his brows.
"If it is to your liking, then it is to mine, Captain," he muses, a little cheeky as that is what a steward should say. He considers him, the teacup extended, and sighs. One day he'll find a way to say no to this man, but it is not that day at all. He crosses to the table, leans a hip into the edge, takes the cup from him. It's warm, that alone draws a small, pleased little smile.
He looks at Crozier over the cup as he sips from it, not blinking until he swallows, then his eyes flutter shut, enjoying the warmth and the sweetness. "It's a good cup of tea. Is it not to your liking, sir? I can make it less sweet, if you prefer. The honey that Captain Ross brought is far more rich than I am used to."
He steals another sip from the cup before he offers it back to him.
"I'll keep that one and make you another, half the honey this time, if you prefer."
It's Jopson with the sweet tooth - hardly exposed to such things back in London, it's a welcome luxury when he's allowed any sort of sweet or decadent thing. One day he'll even try drinking chocolate - but he'll have to buy chocolate first and that is a coin purse he leaves to last when saving his shillings.
Pretty. It is his mannerisms that make him so, because he is otherwise perfectly masculine; but he wonders if anyone else gets to see him like this. Surely some do. How often? Jopson is good at his job and keeps himself to the peripherals, out from underfoot, and purposefully unremarkable, no matter that he draws the attention of his charge so easily. Crozier wants to touch his chin again, follow that smile, the obvious delight. Perhaps another time.
"Hmm."
As though he needs to test it once more, he takes a sip. Not much in these decorative cups, but that's fine. Keeps it from going cold in this weather if you drink it quick enough.
"I like it for today." Maybe that's a part of the ongoing struggle of his life. Diverse tastes. There's how he usually likes it, but he doesn't hate deviations now and again. (Hah, deviant.) "But why don't you make one up to your own tastes, so that I know? And we'll split that one, too. I can read to you a little about the dreary art of measuring stars, if you like."
They are just messing about, now, doing that thing he should hate and wasting time. But they are living beings here on the ship, as well as professionals. A bit of time can survive the abuse.
"The honey is good for the cold, if we're to stand outside later this evening."
Always a reason for the choices he makes, always calculated and carefully thought through, particularly where his captain is concerned. But he does as he's told - smiles at the man and rises to make a cuppa for himself. He could make it up like he would do at home, but it's too tempting to resist when he's able to stare down at tea and milk and sugar and honey. He makes up a little brew for himself and tests it, back turned. It's rich and sweet and makes his cheeks flush for the luxury of it.
He commits the taste to memory and turns back to the table, setting it before Crozier.
"You'll laugh at me when you taste it," he says as he takes a seat across from him at the table. "It isn't what I drink on the daily, but if I could have my way it would be. I'm sure most men would balk at the taste."
But sweet things were such a commodity in his house that any time he had them, he'd take his time, savor it. Even drinking it piping hot is worth it in the long run. He crosses his legs at the knee, bumping a foot against the man's calf.
"I'd very much like you to read to me, regardless of the tea."
Thoughtful, as ever. Like he is made for it, mapping out his interiority onto his work, onto whomever he is assigned to serve. He thinks of Jopson saying that his captain on Racer was a difficult man— and wonders what that cost him. The exchange must have been worth it for him to continue, and find himself here, exploring as well as serving.
One cup finished, he fetches the book to have it on hand as Jopson makes up the second. Curious when the warning is issued. Did he dump salt into it?
Oh, no. Very much the opposite of that. Crozier doesn't find it offensive, but it does make his eyebrows go up in surprise. It's so—
More contradictions and multitudes. Charming.
"You'd happily drink your pudding, I see," he says, smile on his face. "Hmm." Thoughtful sound, he takes a second, small sip, this time to really think about it. Verdict, as he passes the cup back to his steward: "It doesn't put me off, but a taste from yours would be plenty."
Any more would be wasted on him. But he's quite happy to have tried, and to learn what Jopson likes. When they next return to port, he will remember, and find something for him. Especially if he keeps threatening to buy him clothes. The foot at his calf, sitting at corners with him at the table, sharing cups. More than the tea is warming him.
"That would be a waste of good pudding," he muses, thoughtful. "I rather like my pudding solid. Cakes and things. This would be the perfect thing to put me to it the morning."
He happily takes the cup, pressing the warmth of it between his palms, delighted to know that his next sip will not be a flavorless mess of hot water and leaves but something a little decadent, sweet. Sometimes he wonders if he's truly the simplest man here. Most sailors prefer their fine whiskeys and tobacco, whereas he'd be content just as he is now with the little brew he's made up.
Idly thumbing over the rim of the fine china he stares down into the honey colored liquid, the reflections, the tell tale ripples of a slow, gently rocking ship. He acts as though he is unaware of the way they sit, close, almost linked up beneath the table. There are words that go with the intimacy of it, but not yet. He's too afraid of speaking too soon.
"Are we starting from the beginning, then? In your book of stars. Does this one give the names and positions of them all as well? I always marveled how you and the others in command could call it out so easily."
A subtle shift of weight, which includes flexing his leg to better let Jopson hook his foot around it. Forward of them both, if this were polite society, and not two men only playing at politeness on a ship in uncharted waters at the end of the Earth. No need for this except for the want of it, and Crozier finds he likes that.
Sweets of all kinds, for Thomas Jopson. Noted.
"It does," he says, opening the book. "Easy way to know just where you are, once you've sorted out the aboves."
And so: he reads. Not the best orator, and he offers asides and interjects this and that as he goes. Stopping to turn the book around on the table to show Jopson one diagram or the other. Moves the teacup and the saucer as props concerning the matter of the Earth and Moon's rotations compared to the fixed nature of the stars. Not getting through many pages with his holidays, but they're not really studying. He wants to see Jopson lean in, or smile, not grill him on constellations.
Soon enough they will have duties to get back to, and Crozier says aye, aye, about the bell and the knock at the door.
There are dozens of things that should have never transpired here in the captain's cabins - the many conversations, the late night talks over tea, the cold strips on his back, the strong hands on his neck, in his hair, this. A delicate dance, and one that Jopson knows the rules to - hooking his foot where there's space made.
Easily forgotten in the tale about the stars, in the demonstrations, in all the images from the book. when Crozier reads sometimes he watches him instead, the way his mouth moves, the way his eyes skim the page, the way he fiddles with a corner of the page as he reads, itching immediately to make another observation. He's passionate about it and that alone keeps Jopson smiling outside of the wonder, curiosity. He asks questions - how did they come to know this or did they make assumptions on everything else based on or it is a beautiful name for a star.
"Sir, I'd like to say something—"
The bell, the knock. A man interrupted, always - but such is the duty of a Steward, is it not? He smiles to himself, a little more reserved again, the warm light of him engaging with Crozier and his stars already beginning to dim. Discreet as always, he plucks up one of the cups and saucers, tucks it on a tray where a few other dishes remain from the morning meeting. Best that no one think he's sharing tea with the captain.
"Another time. Thank you, sir, I—"
Another knock. When he answers it's the handful of Lieutenants coming for one of their many huddles following an eventful few days. Jopson goes about gathering lunch, making tea for them, filling glasses with water and wine as requested. Strange that he can feel so grounded, pulled in by the world's strange and mysterious magnetism to Francis Crozier, and in the same breath feel as far away as the bright Centaurus or Carina in the sky.
He'll tell him later. Jopson smiles politely, nods his head to the men and goes to stand in wait by the door. Always later.
Jopson moves to get up, and Crozier brushes a light touch on his forearm as he goes. Looks at him, his expression gentle and fond. Yes, he's welcome to say something. Another time, any time. They will have it, because they have a wealth of moments alone together. More than most can say on a voyage like this.
But for now: work. Now and again his steward is called in to move something — Francis asks him to hold a chart up at the other end from the third lieutenant, and it threatens to be a bit comical, but perspective helps when mapping. Lunch, and reports, and packing up gear to take a gig to the rock they've made an unofficial lighthouse of sorts. Infinitely easier to take measurements when standing on something still, though the naturalist remarks on the drift over that he'd like to work more on the ship itself so that he can get his 'measurement sealegs', envious of Crozier and even Ross who seem to be able to mentally compensate to perfect accuracy.
Cold and wet and with questionable light. Not darkness, the sun ever hovering at the horizon, as though it's a tired eye that can't yet sleep. Months now, before sunset. It is beautiful, though, with stars blinking to life in the strange paintspill of color, dotted around the closest one of the sun itself. Crozier splits his attentions between the actual work, and paying close attention to the way the formally educated scientists do it. He bumps Jopson's elbow with his own and exchanges a look— Interesting, eh?
Lieutenant Kay is keen on doing some fishing while they're there, having no mind for figures, but this becomes a bit of a drama when he produces a stunning fish someone would like to do a drawing of. Conflicting dinner interests.
It is all very serious and very dangerous, out here — one of the great, predatory seals first described by the French has been spotted lurking in these waters, the length of the gig boat, to say noting of the mundane risk of slipping on rocks — but sometimes there are days in which there's just fishing, and reading, and drawings of interesting things.
The dim of evening begins to fall overhead and Jopson makes the appropriate preparations for their little stint out in the gig. The hunk of rock they stop on is no palatial by any means, but enough that they can all have their own ground to stand or sit upon, look across in varying directions. He's packed some food and drink for them to get by on through the evening while the ship drifts some distance away from them, bobbing sleepily in the waters.
He stands among the men, quiet, watching. The naturalists and scientists and men of title and rank. He feels strangely small here, a little lost as to what he's doing other than watching and trying to understand what they're doing and why they're doing it. Occasionally he looks up, watches Crozier with interest, then smiles to him when their elbows bump. A soft nod, because he can assume the question there behind his eyes.
He should have brought a book or a journal, but he hasn't. Instead he tips his head up to the sky, the scientist's talk far beyond him now, but he enjoys the night sky without the lamplight of the boat around him, horizon to horizon nothing but indigo with dazzling lights overhead. He'll memorize them all one day.
"Perhaps we keep it in the shallow against the rock so you may draw it and then of course we may let Lieutenant Kay decide what to do with his catch? I've some cheesecloth we can use to preserve it."
What can he be here other than useful? It's cold, there isn't much for him to comment on outside of the fish, but eventually, as the other men wander to a farther edge, he turns to Crozier, ducking in a little to speak quietly.
"Which is Centaurus? Are we able to see it here? I believe the book said it should be in the sky just about this time of year."
Fish peace made, courtesy of his steward. A logical mind, Crozier really does think he could have set out to do anything if he wanted. But he wanted this, and that is something to be respected. Jopson is good at his job, and Crozier is lucky to have him as his steward, and as his friend, too. He hopes that's what they are, even if that answer never comes.
Paying attention. Crozier smiles.
"And the book is correct."
So—
Stargazing. Crozier finds Omega Centauri, the brightest 'star' and easily visible to the naked eye. He explains how only quite recently a bloke called Dunlop determined definitively that it's globular cluster and not merely stars that appear near to each other. Dunlop resides in New South Wales, and they've had correspondence with him in preparation from the journey— probably he'll be receiving some mail from this very study. Anyway, there it is, the centaur. A specific centaur, unlike the general representation of Sagittarius, which is visible as well but not so visible.
In this way, unbeknownst to them (for now), they end up in a sketchbook, a little note under it, Polar explorers. One man pointing heavenward, another listening.
With his eyes set on the sky, following the careful line of Crozier's hand as he explains, it's easy to believe they're not on any sea-bound voyage, but in the bubble of whatever world this might be. Sure, he can hear Lieutenant Kay plop his line back in the water, the faint scratchings of pencil on paper, but nothing keeps him so much as the man beside him. The warmth coming off of him is tempting, the scent of his aftershave, the smell of sea spray.
"I see."
It's so much to take in. He spends the better part of the hour at Crozier's side, occasionally talking about what globular clusters they're looking at, listening to all of them make conjectures at how far away it might be in the sky. As far as my stomach is empty, Kay ribs them for the fish and there's a laugh. Peace, out here on the little light house, away from the ship. He could stay here like this for a long while, he thinks, out in the biting cold with a clear, crisp sky overhead.
It's not to be. They're packing up on the gig before too long, Kay in tow with two interesting sea fish that the naturalist sketches until the last minute, Jopson last on to be sure nothing is left behind. They're welcomed back aboard with a hand from Phillps and McMurdo who whistle and elbow Kay for his good fishing.
All sorts of excitement among them, one of the more scientific men approaching Crozier with wide, eager eyes, rambling at him about the drawing. Jopson slips away in the bustle of it all, retreating back to the captain's quarters, listening to the thrill of enlightenment above decks until he disappears into the belly of the ship to put on something hot to warm the Captain when he returns.
(That and the cold has made his back ache - the welts tight, the skin dry. But he'll never admit it).
Jopson seems happier for the attention than anyone Crozier has ever spoken to. And he doesn't seem sentimental at all, nothing in him ever seems anything less than honest— refreshing, and it puts him at ease. He could go on for ages, chatting with him, or just sitting quietly. It reminds him of the same peace he attains with Jamie, when they're not trying to cram in weeks of sailing into a day's meeting.
Aside from fish, he's got plenty to go over with Kay during warm drinks, and then a late dinner. It's not until the wee hours that he has time to find Jopson alone, though he pauses momentarily. The hesitation is plain on his face, and so he doesn't bother to pretend otherwise.
"You might be too tired," he says. "But if you like, go and fetch the arnica from the surgeon and I'll see to it."
Too forward. But he had ambushed him before. This time, an offer.
Warm drinks, a little paperwork on their supplies, dinner, clean up, and the like. It's a quiet evening, and he begins down the laundry list of responsibilities that were waylaid by the little starry adventure.
When Crozier finds him, he's pressing the man's shirts for the morning, having done the work already to make up the man's berth, heating it with the leftover coals once again. It won't keep the chill out long, but it should help him find rest quicker at the very least. He blinks up at the man, brow pinching at first from the look on his face alone, with a surprised Captain? -
"Oh, thank you, sir," a different surprise. Pausing, but then a quiet nod. He'll be behind come morning if he stops, but - a nod. He finishes his last press on a sleeve, sets the smoothing iron back on the small stove it sits on. Not too long after and he's reporting back to the Captain's quarters, a little pot of the stuff in hand, pulling the door shut behind him.
"I'll finish pressing your shirts come morning, if it's all the same to you, sir? I try not to light new coals for the stove when we can't make better use of it."
That isn't why he's come back, that isn't hardly the most pressing thing between them now, and yet it goes without saying. He approaches, sets the little pot of arnica paste on the table, not unlike he gently passed the cup of tea this morning.
"I'll add what's left to the pan in your berth, hopefully keep the chill out a while longer."
It's Jopson's world, all this. Sometimes Crozier still forgets, has to have things pulled away from his own attention, finds himself almost put off by being cared for like he's some lord. But Jopson has a way about him— and so his captain is smiling a bit now as he finishes cleaning his hands, coat put away, sleeves already rolled up.
The penguins don't mind if his shirts aren't pressed, and neither does Francis, but he thinks his steward will hit the roof.
"Would you like the chair as before, or to lay down? I don't mind you there."
He picks up the jar. Happy to have the offer accepted. Jopson hides it well, but Crozier can still see the careful way he holds himself straight or turns just so, now and then. Only a few days, so he expects another week before things have turned green and painless.
He's seen Crozier in all manner of dress - simply the nature of his job - but the man paints a strong image with sleeves rolled up, coat put away. Casual in a way a Captain is not, and for a moment he can imagine him out in the sun like this, damp with sea or covered in muck and dirt.
The chair or... what, the bed? A strange though to be back in the man's bed, but by choice. Instead of answering immediately he undoes the buttons on his coat, carefully shrugs it off and folds it over the back of the chair. The coat is easier - the waistcoat not nearly so. He takes his time with those buttons, in particular.
"Thank you for allowing me to join the excursion earlier this evening, sir," quiet, and he turns, just enough that his expression is shielded as he works his way out of the vest, and with a soft sigh, finally folds it with the jacket. Bruises, for one, but with the skin dry and tight, the pinch of shoulder blades is murderous.
"I'm not sharp enough for all the talk of magnetism and pulls and forces, but I enjoyed your view of the stars very much."
Crozier waits, observant. Mm. As expected, with the way Jopson shields himself. But he's allowed his flinches in private— being here at all is far and above a show of vulnerability as it is.
"You aren't dull." Even if he doesn't consider himself properly sharp. He is, Crozier thinks, but it's an odd thing to argue about that will quickly feel like hollow flattery. He opts to say something unassailable in its truth instead: "I enjoyed your company."
Jopson's company suits him. And, he thinks, so does a steward who's curious about the world. A small sound as the jar of salve opens. In no rush, but he puts a little on his hands to work in, to warm things. Different from that first night when fresh damage needed help from swelling, now, warmth will ease stiffness.
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"You're at liberty to peruse the library as any sailor," he notes. "Though I can't speak to the tastes of the donors."
Crozier is not a big contemporary fiction reader, surprise. Adventures read a bit odd to him, living as he does, and fantasies and romances lean into class issues too much to win any goodwill. And so, science journals and Greek classics, for him. Some people might accuse him of being snobbish, and that's fine.
"Science is all about making order of things. Understanding the madness of the living world. I suppose that's what made me curious— that any bit of that could be possible at all. And still we only know raindrops. I am empty, next to the men we've brought along to do studies of the plans and animals. Just a man making notes. And yet it's interesting."
Or else he wouldn't be here. And he thinks, maybe, Jopson might find this perspective interesting, too.
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A small gesture to the book, where he runs a hand over the cover again, smooth and carefully crafted. Jopson wondered about the world when he was younger, when he was starry-eyed and youthful and not yet hindered by the sharp edges of the world. He might have enjoyed this then as much as he enjoyed learning his father's craft. A sponge, waiting to soak up any knowledge someone might offer him.
"And I am empty next to you, sir," he smiles a little, turning to look at him a little better, knocking his knee into the older man's. "Will this book aid in making sense of the madness we face? I think about it sometimes - that we all woke up and chose to sail face first into the blistering cold. For great discovery, of course, to put a man's name on a piece of land, but it's right mad when you think about it."
There's noise up on the deck - men hooting and hollering, a bell ringing somewhere, signaling the men to break. He rather enjoys the sounds of a merry, busy ship.
"So we follow an empty, mad Captain into the sea over and over again. It makes for a very grand story. One I would very much like to read when I am between tasks - well, assuming you stop putting holes in every piece of cloth you own - it's right impressive."
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Crozier laughs a little, just a barely-there chuckle. Jopson's right, it is mad. Has always been, and he had known it to be so when he first set foot on Hamadryad, a lifetime ago. It had thrilled him as a boy. It still thrills him, even though he's also found great solace in the brutal order of navy life. Sailing is madness, and a sailor must be a stone in the face of it.
And ordered madness goes on, above them. Around them. Perhaps in here, too, fraternizing far too familiarly. Keenly aware of each other.
"Madness follows its like," he teases. "You're darning socks while floating."
Jopson is literate, skilled, diligent. He doesn't have to work on a ship. They're all loons, out here.
"We learn about humanity while we learn about our world. Technicians, we are, while some men see it as the search for God, and others see it as the search to disprove God. No business of mine, all that. And yours— I'm sure I've got at least some trousers that are unholed."
How very dare you.
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Pleasant, all of this. It makes it easier to ignore the pain in his back, the way twisting to look at the man hurts in a new way today as the welts begin to ease and heal. Perhaps if he had a job elsewhere, he'd not have scars or welts but would instead be cold and miserable somewhere else. He'll take the lashes. For this? The ship, his captain? He'd do it again, no questions asked.
"And the only trousers that have survived the times and trials of Captain Francis Crozier would be the ones you're wearing now, sir." A reach, cheeky thing, at the fabric over his thigh where he pinches it, pulls it a little. "I've put patches in all the others so it will be a little more difficult for you to ruin them so quickly."
He smiles, hand drifts away, and he rises, moving to tidy up the table, setting the book in perfect alignment with the corner so he can free his hands up, place a few things back in their places.
"I think next we're landed I will spend my own shillings and pounds to restock your wardrobe for our next leg." Things he may or may not have done before. Who's to say.
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"I'm a sailor."
As if this is enough to explain the state of his clothes— and it is. He may not have the laborious shifts of an able seaman or caulker, but he works. He takes to the rigging when he needs to, he goes to shore on the ice, he hunts, he digs up curious rocks, he walks the deck, every day, every night. But, he demures,
"I have not previously had such attention to my wardrobe. You started with a backlog. And I can only thank you for your care."
Perfectly content to wear his uniform if it's clean and not mind anything past that. He's paid fairly, even generously, and he could wrap himself in luxury if he chose. But he finds no joy in it, and finds better uses for his pay. More practical things, and the excess sent back home. No use for fine shirts, or multiple coats. He gets on. But lately he's been getting on a bit better, because he's had someone who looks after him.
Now, he does stand, and goes to closer observe Jopson's work.
"If you do, I will expense it. It would shame me otherwise."
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Cheeky little shit he is. Jopson smirks, knowing and a little playful as he carefully organizes the papers on the desk, then the books, then the writing utensils. Everything has its proper place, one he carefully replaces them to even with Crozier up and drawing closer.
With him, Jopson has never thought twice about nearness, accepting the easy presence of Crozier floating lazily in the sea of his periphery. Some of the books go back to their shelves,
others with active notes go to Crozier’s desk, where he leans over the edge to place the documents. It helps that it turns his body into long lines and all strong limbs.
“Let me finish tidying and I’ll ring for some tea for you. Perhaps something a little sweeter today to indulge in the stars.”
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His steward really is very attractive. He could have his pick of men inclined to it, on the ship, and even among those who usually aren't. Crozier's ego is warmed to know he's in the ranking, even though he knows full well how to pull other men. Easier than women, though he's cautious about who he'll gamble the ruin of his reputation on. Men above his station are safe, mutually assured destruction; molly boys eager to be taken sternly in hand, the other end of that spectrum, safely anonymous.
Jopson is something else.
He likes him.
"As you say."
A lilt of teasing in his voice. Crozier has come to learn there's little arguing with him, but honestly, he likes this. Tea and stars. If Jopson doesn't think to get himself a cup, too, he can share in his commander's.
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He fusses about the room a little more, righting chairs at the great table, wiping the table down with a cloth, even turning everything on the captain's desk to neat, straight piles. Only when he seems satisfied with the state of the room and his sewing is folded and tidied to the end of the bench he sighs. His turn for an elbow, but he squeezes it instead, fingers lingering there until his walk past him draws him away altogether and out the door.
He makes polite conversation as he travels down to fetch a hot kettle. Returns with all the trappings for Crozier's tea. He makes the usual cup, meticulous and with nearly scientific precision, but at the very end he stirs in a dollop of honey. A treat for a colder day, but a good bolster for being out just past dark to keep his good health.
It's incredibly satisfying, caring for someone else. No less someone that occupies his mind majority of the day as it is.
"Here you are, sir," he slides the saucer across to him. "In good preparation for this evening."
He doesn't linger overlong, instead shrugs out of his jacket, hanging it on a coat hook. he rolls his sleeves up, but it's obvious in the way he moves that his back still stings, a little stiff as he begins to dust the shelves and the mantle. It's performative more than anything, his cleaning - the place is remarkably tidy from days of attention. Instead, it's more that the captain has something to look at and agonize over while he has his sweetened tea.
His choice, the man said. He made his choice what feels like eons ago, but he'd been punished with distance before the lashings. Now he means to gently punish his captain with nearness.
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Jopson cuts an attractive figure, and since he's only pretending to clean, he must not mind an audience. Crozier observes him, accepting the performance and appreciating it— not that the act of cleaning holds any sway. But his stewards his handsome, and well proportioned, and deserving of an admiring stare while they have enough privacy for him to get away with fixing him with one.
To work to be worth it is hardly an agony.
"Come and taste if this is to your liking," he says, and it's more of a coax than an order. Holding the teacup out. He's taken a drink already. "You squirrel away your own preferences too often, while you note mine as sharp as any of the scientists we're to weigh down."
And then he may go back to showing off how nice he looks in his vest.
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Looking over his shoulder, he raises his brows.
"If it is to your liking, then it is to mine, Captain," he muses, a little cheeky as that is what a steward should say. He considers him, the teacup extended, and sighs. One day he'll find a way to say no to this man, but it is not that day at all. He crosses to the table, leans a hip into the edge, takes the cup from him. It's warm, that alone draws a small, pleased little smile.
He looks at Crozier over the cup as he sips from it, not blinking until he swallows, then his eyes flutter shut, enjoying the warmth and the sweetness. "It's a good cup of tea. Is it not to your liking, sir? I can make it less sweet, if you prefer. The honey that Captain Ross brought is far more rich than I am used to."
He steals another sip from the cup before he offers it back to him.
"I'll keep that one and make you another, half the honey this time, if you prefer."
It's Jopson with the sweet tooth - hardly exposed to such things back in London, it's a welcome luxury when he's allowed any sort of sweet or decadent thing. One day he'll even try drinking chocolate - but he'll have to buy chocolate first and that is a coin purse he leaves to last when saving his shillings.
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"Hmm."
As though he needs to test it once more, he takes a sip. Not much in these decorative cups, but that's fine. Keeps it from going cold in this weather if you drink it quick enough.
"I like it for today." Maybe that's a part of the ongoing struggle of his life. Diverse tastes. There's how he usually likes it, but he doesn't hate deviations now and again. (Hah, deviant.) "But why don't you make one up to your own tastes, so that I know? And we'll split that one, too. I can read to you a little about the dreary art of measuring stars, if you like."
They are just messing about, now, doing that thing he should hate and wasting time. But they are living beings here on the ship, as well as professionals. A bit of time can survive the abuse.
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Always a reason for the choices he makes, always calculated and carefully thought through, particularly where his captain is concerned. But he does as he's told - smiles at the man and rises to make a cuppa for himself. He could make it up like he would do at home, but it's too tempting to resist when he's able to stare down at tea and milk and sugar and honey. He makes up a little brew for himself and tests it, back turned. It's rich and sweet and makes his cheeks flush for the luxury of it.
He commits the taste to memory and turns back to the table, setting it before Crozier.
"You'll laugh at me when you taste it," he says as he takes a seat across from him at the table. "It isn't what I drink on the daily, but if I could have my way it would be. I'm sure most men would balk at the taste."
But sweet things were such a commodity in his house that any time he had them, he'd take his time, savor it. Even drinking it piping hot is worth it in the long run. He crosses his legs at the knee, bumping a foot against the man's calf.
"I'd very much like you to read to me, regardless of the tea."
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One cup finished, he fetches the book to have it on hand as Jopson makes up the second. Curious when the warning is issued. Did he dump salt into it?
Oh, no. Very much the opposite of that. Crozier doesn't find it offensive, but it does make his eyebrows go up in surprise. It's so—
More contradictions and multitudes. Charming.
"You'd happily drink your pudding, I see," he says, smile on his face. "Hmm." Thoughtful sound, he takes a second, small sip, this time to really think about it. Verdict, as he passes the cup back to his steward: "It doesn't put me off, but a taste from yours would be plenty."
Any more would be wasted on him. But he's quite happy to have tried, and to learn what Jopson likes. When they next return to port, he will remember, and find something for him. Especially if he keeps threatening to buy him clothes. The foot at his calf, sitting at corners with him at the table, sharing cups. More than the tea is warming him.
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He happily takes the cup, pressing the warmth of it between his palms, delighted to know that his next sip will not be a flavorless mess of hot water and leaves but something a little decadent, sweet. Sometimes he wonders if he's truly the simplest man here. Most sailors prefer their fine whiskeys and tobacco, whereas he'd be content just as he is now with the little brew he's made up.
Idly thumbing over the rim of the fine china he stares down into the honey colored liquid, the reflections, the tell tale ripples of a slow, gently rocking ship. He acts as though he is unaware of the way they sit, close, almost linked up beneath the table. There are words that go with the intimacy of it, but not yet. He's too afraid of speaking too soon.
"Are we starting from the beginning, then? In your book of stars. Does this one give the names and positions of them all as well? I always marveled how you and the others in command could call it out so easily."
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Sweets of all kinds, for Thomas Jopson. Noted.
"It does," he says, opening the book. "Easy way to know just where you are, once you've sorted out the aboves."
And so: he reads. Not the best orator, and he offers asides and interjects this and that as he goes. Stopping to turn the book around on the table to show Jopson one diagram or the other. Moves the teacup and the saucer as props concerning the matter of the Earth and Moon's rotations compared to the fixed nature of the stars. Not getting through many pages with his holidays, but they're not really studying. He wants to see Jopson lean in, or smile, not grill him on constellations.
Soon enough they will have duties to get back to, and Crozier says aye, aye, about the bell and the knock at the door.
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Easily forgotten in the tale about the stars, in the demonstrations, in all the images from the book. when Crozier reads sometimes he watches him instead, the way his mouth moves, the way his eyes skim the page, the way he fiddles with a corner of the page as he reads, itching immediately to make another observation. He's passionate about it and that alone keeps Jopson smiling outside of the wonder, curiosity. He asks questions - how did they come to know this or did they make assumptions on everything else based on or it is a beautiful name for a star.
"Sir, I'd like to say something—"
The bell, the knock. A man interrupted, always - but such is the duty of a Steward, is it not? He smiles to himself, a little more reserved again, the warm light of him engaging with Crozier and his stars already beginning to dim. Discreet as always, he plucks up one of the cups and saucers, tucks it on a tray where a few other dishes remain from the morning meeting. Best that no one think he's sharing tea with the captain.
"Another time. Thank you, sir, I—"
Another knock. When he answers it's the handful of Lieutenants coming for one of their many huddles following an eventful few days. Jopson goes about gathering lunch, making tea for them, filling glasses with water and wine as requested. Strange that he can feel so grounded, pulled in by the world's strange and mysterious magnetism to Francis Crozier, and in the same breath feel as far away as the bright Centaurus or Carina in the sky.
He'll tell him later. Jopson smiles politely, nods his head to the men and goes to stand in wait by the door. Always later.
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But for now: work. Now and again his steward is called in to move something — Francis asks him to hold a chart up at the other end from the third lieutenant, and it threatens to be a bit comical, but perspective helps when mapping. Lunch, and reports, and packing up gear to take a gig to the rock they've made an unofficial lighthouse of sorts. Infinitely easier to take measurements when standing on something still, though the naturalist remarks on the drift over that he'd like to work more on the ship itself so that he can get his 'measurement sealegs', envious of Crozier and even Ross who seem to be able to mentally compensate to perfect accuracy.
Cold and wet and with questionable light. Not darkness, the sun ever hovering at the horizon, as though it's a tired eye that can't yet sleep. Months now, before sunset. It is beautiful, though, with stars blinking to life in the strange paintspill of color, dotted around the closest one of the sun itself. Crozier splits his attentions between the actual work, and paying close attention to the way the formally educated scientists do it. He bumps Jopson's elbow with his own and exchanges a look— Interesting, eh?
Lieutenant Kay is keen on doing some fishing while they're there, having no mind for figures, but this becomes a bit of a drama when he produces a stunning fish someone would like to do a drawing of. Conflicting dinner interests.
It is all very serious and very dangerous, out here — one of the great, predatory seals first described by the French has been spotted lurking in these waters, the length of the gig boat, to say noting of the mundane risk of slipping on rocks — but sometimes there are days in which there's just fishing, and reading, and drawings of interesting things.
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He stands among the men, quiet, watching. The naturalists and scientists and men of title and rank. He feels strangely small here, a little lost as to what he's doing other than watching and trying to understand what they're doing and why they're doing it. Occasionally he looks up, watches Crozier with interest, then smiles to him when their elbows bump. A soft nod, because he can assume the question there behind his eyes.
He should have brought a book or a journal, but he hasn't. Instead he tips his head up to the sky, the scientist's talk far beyond him now, but he enjoys the night sky without the lamplight of the boat around him, horizon to horizon nothing but indigo with dazzling lights overhead. He'll memorize them all one day.
"Perhaps we keep it in the shallow against the rock so you may draw it and then of course we may let Lieutenant Kay decide what to do with his catch? I've some cheesecloth we can use to preserve it."
What can he be here other than useful? It's cold, there isn't much for him to comment on outside of the fish, but eventually, as the other men wander to a farther edge, he turns to Crozier, ducking in a little to speak quietly.
"Which is Centaurus? Are we able to see it here? I believe the book said it should be in the sky just about this time of year."
See? He's paying attention.
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Paying attention. Crozier smiles.
"And the book is correct."
So—
Stargazing. Crozier finds Omega Centauri, the brightest 'star' and easily visible to the naked eye. He explains how only quite recently a bloke called Dunlop determined definitively that it's globular cluster and not merely stars that appear near to each other. Dunlop resides in New South Wales, and they've had correspondence with him in preparation from the journey— probably he'll be receiving some mail from this very study. Anyway, there it is, the centaur. A specific centaur, unlike the general representation of Sagittarius, which is visible as well but not so visible.
In this way, unbeknownst to them (for now), they end up in a sketchbook, a little note under it, Polar explorers. One man pointing heavenward, another listening.
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"I see."
It's so much to take in. He spends the better part of the hour at Crozier's side, occasionally talking about what globular clusters they're looking at, listening to all of them make conjectures at how far away it might be in the sky. As far as my stomach is empty, Kay ribs them for the fish and there's a laugh. Peace, out here on the little light house, away from the ship. He could stay here like this for a long while, he thinks, out in the biting cold with a clear, crisp sky overhead.
It's not to be. They're packing up on the gig before too long, Kay in tow with two interesting sea fish that the naturalist sketches until the last minute, Jopson last on to be sure nothing is left behind. They're welcomed back aboard with a hand from Phillps and McMurdo who whistle and elbow Kay for his good fishing.
All sorts of excitement among them, one of the more scientific men approaching Crozier with wide, eager eyes, rambling at him about the drawing. Jopson slips away in the bustle of it all, retreating back to the captain's quarters, listening to the thrill of enlightenment above decks until he disappears into the belly of the ship to put on something hot to warm the Captain when he returns.
(That and the cold has made his back ache - the welts tight, the skin dry. But he'll never admit it).
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Aside from fish, he's got plenty to go over with Kay during warm drinks, and then a late dinner. It's not until the wee hours that he has time to find Jopson alone, though he pauses momentarily. The hesitation is plain on his face, and so he doesn't bother to pretend otherwise.
"You might be too tired," he says. "But if you like, go and fetch the arnica from the surgeon and I'll see to it."
Too forward. But he had ambushed him before. This time, an offer.
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When Crozier finds him, he's pressing the man's shirts for the morning, having done the work already to make up the man's berth, heating it with the leftover coals once again. It won't keep the chill out long, but it should help him find rest quicker at the very least. He blinks up at the man, brow pinching at first from the look on his face alone, with a surprised Captain? -
"Oh, thank you, sir," a different surprise. Pausing, but then a quiet nod. He'll be behind come morning if he stops, but - a nod. He finishes his last press on a sleeve, sets the smoothing iron back on the small stove it sits on. Not too long after and he's reporting back to the Captain's quarters, a little pot of the stuff in hand, pulling the door shut behind him.
"I'll finish pressing your shirts come morning, if it's all the same to you, sir? I try not to light new coals for the stove when we can't make better use of it."
That isn't why he's come back, that isn't hardly the most pressing thing between them now, and yet it goes without saying. He approaches, sets the little pot of arnica paste on the table, not unlike he gently passed the cup of tea this morning.
"I'll add what's left to the pan in your berth, hopefully keep the chill out a while longer."
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It's Jopson's world, all this. Sometimes Crozier still forgets, has to have things pulled away from his own attention, finds himself almost put off by being cared for like he's some lord. But Jopson has a way about him— and so his captain is smiling a bit now as he finishes cleaning his hands, coat put away, sleeves already rolled up.
The penguins don't mind if his shirts aren't pressed, and neither does Francis, but he thinks his steward will hit the roof.
"Would you like the chair as before, or to lay down? I don't mind you there."
He picks up the jar. Happy to have the offer accepted. Jopson hides it well, but Crozier can still see the careful way he holds himself straight or turns just so, now and then. Only a few days, so he expects another week before things have turned green and painless.
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The chair or... what, the bed? A strange though to be back in the man's bed, but by choice. Instead of answering immediately he undoes the buttons on his coat, carefully shrugs it off and folds it over the back of the chair. The coat is easier - the waistcoat not nearly so. He takes his time with those buttons, in particular.
"Thank you for allowing me to join the excursion earlier this evening, sir," quiet, and he turns, just enough that his expression is shielded as he works his way out of the vest, and with a soft sigh, finally folds it with the jacket. Bruises, for one, but with the skin dry and tight, the pinch of shoulder blades is murderous.
"I'm not sharp enough for all the talk of magnetism and pulls and forces, but I enjoyed your view of the stars very much."
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"You aren't dull." Even if he doesn't consider himself properly sharp. He is, Crozier thinks, but it's an odd thing to argue about that will quickly feel like hollow flattery. He opts to say something unassailable in its truth instead: "I enjoyed your company."
Jopson's company suits him. And, he thinks, so does a steward who's curious about the world. A small sound as the jar of salve opens. In no rush, but he puts a little on his hands to work in, to warm things. Different from that first night when fresh damage needed help from swelling, now, warmth will ease stiffness.
"All right, lad?"
Getting out of things. Hm.
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i'm gonna kms over my own weird typos
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